


pick your poison before i pick it for you

by dreadedlaramie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-03 03:13:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8694166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreadedlaramie/pseuds/dreadedlaramie
Summary: sold my soul to a three-piece / and he told me i was holy

 
In which Dean sells his soul to the crossroads demon Castiel.





	

**Author's Note:**

> ive got nothing.  
> only warning this really needs is for consent issues, and boy how it needs it.

At first, there’s nothing, just the occasional sound of a car passing by carried over from the distant highway by the light spring breeze, the ambient noises of any warm night out here.

Dean wonders if anyone is even going to show. It’s not like he and demons are exactly on the best of terms.

He kicks absently at the ground over the buried box.

It’s been two hours of him pacing and yelling and drinking, and if this were for anyone but Sam, for anything less important than this, he would have left a long time ago. He’s considering leaving anyway, even with the stakes as high as they are, because there are better things he could be doing than getting jerked around by demons.

Sam’s body is getting cold.

Then, finally,  _ finally _ — a rustling, like autumn leaves or a bird’s wings.

“Hello, Dean.”

Something about the way his name sounds in the demon’s mouth unnerves Dean, almost as much as the soft exhalation he felt on the back of his neck with it.

Dean turns, finds the demon face to face and too close for comfort— however close that would be in a situation like this. He doesn’t step back. He tries not to flinch.

“Hey, uh,” Dean starts, pausing for a name without really expecting one.

“Castiel,” comes the flat reply.

“Took you long enough to show.”

“Be grateful I’m here at all, Dean.”

“Right. Uh, so, Cas. I want to—”

“Make a deal. I know. Your soul for Sam’s life.”

“Yeah, so if we could just, y’know, hurry on that, give me my ten years and whatever and—”

“No,” Castiel says, tone absolute.

“What.”

“No. No deal.”

“Wh— Isn’t that like, your job?”

“Yes. No deal.”

“Five years.”

“No.”

Dean swallows, remembers why he’s doing this in the first place.

“One year. Please.”

“One year,” Cas repeats. “Your soul isn’t worth that much.”

Dean winces at that, unable to keep it hidden. “Please. I’ll do anything, just… bring Sam back. Please.”

It smarts to beg, but hurts nowhere close to how losing Sam felt,  _ feels _ .

“As much fun as it is watching you beg, I have better things to be doing,” Cas says dismissively, moving as if to turn away. Dean grabs his arm.

“Please,” he repeats.

“On the other hand…  _ anything  _ is quite a tempting offer. If you mean it.” Castiel’s eyes flick black.

Dean doubles down on this like he’s doubled down on every other mistake in his life. “I do.”

“Well then. I think we might be able to make a deal after all.” His eyes are blue again, cold and assessing.

“What do you w—”

Cas moves his fingers slightly.

Dean falls to his knees, fast, rocks digging into the soft skin beneath his kneecap, and he has to grab onto the cloth of Castiel’s slacks not to fall into the dirt. He winds up with his cheek pressed against the rough fabric, thin enough that he can feel body heat.

“—ant me to do?” he finishes, muffled and unnecessary.

Dean rights himself and looks up at Cas. He sees the same look he’s seen a thousand times over, in no-tell motels and back alleys across the country. They always look at you the same.

“Three guesses, and the first two don’t count.”

“Right,” Dean says, half to himself, as he undoes Cas’ belt. Cas’ pants pool to the ground as soon as Dean unzips them.

Dean takes Cas’ cock in hand, licks a neat stripe up to the head before taking it in his mouth and moving.

Dean makes it intentionally shitty, too sloppy, all teeth and theatrical splutters. It’s a worse job than even his first time, sixteen and broke and desperate— that was for Sam, too. It’s always been for Sam.

Cas lets him for just a moment before pulling Dean’s head back with a snarl.

He holds Dean in place with one hand, and with the other he guides his cock to rest against Dean’s left orbital bone, the head grazing his eyelid wetly.

“Consider for a moment that I am being kind,” Cas says, and on  _ kind _ , he pushes his hips forward, just far enough that it’s an angry ghost of pressure against Dean’s eye. “Generous, even,” he continues, pressing the tiniest bit further, until Dean sees spots. He feels a bead of precome smear across his eyelid and lashes. “Just a suggestion.”

Dean takes the hint.

This time, Dean works his way down inch by torturous inch to the base, all smooth soft wet heat, swallows around the head of Cas’ cock. Cas’ grip in his hair tightens, he holds Dean still again, all the way down, nose brushing the skin of Cas’ abdomen.

“Oh, there’s a good boy.”

Dean warms unconsciously at the praise, a nigh Pavlovian response that hits him hard and low and god how he wishes what he was feeling were shame.

He tries to pull back and finds the demon’s grip unyielding, instead just swallows again.

Cas rocks his hips slightly, testing the give of Dean’s throat, before pulling out almost all the way, the tip of his cock resting between Dean’s lips.

Dean takes the opportunity to take a deep breath because what’s next is—

Cas pushes back in, fast and hard and all the way, and Dean can’t do anything but take it— the roll of Cas’ hips as he buries himself deep, the stretch of his throat, the giddy light-headedness of hypoxia.

“See, now, isn’t that better?” Castiel asks, running his thumb across Dean’s cheekbone.

Dean makes a noncommittal noise, or rather, tries to, and Cas moans with the vibration.

Cas starts to move then, steady and slow until he finds a rhythm he likes, pushing himself down Dean’s throat with each thrust.

“Fuck, you look— unh— so good like this,” Cas says, because the lines are always the same no matter where you go. He does, though, Dean knows, lips red and stretched and spit-slick, lashes beaded with tears— he knows what kind of picture he makes like this, and he groans at the thought.

Cas is a talker, because of course he is, talks just enough and moves just right that Dean can’t disengage from this, that he’s stuck present in mind and body as a demon fucks his throat like he was made for it (and some days Dean wonders if he was, if he’s useful only for this). It’s mostly nonsense, all  _ fuck  _ and  _ baby  _ and  _ just like that _ . Dean picks out the word  _ holy _ , unfollowed by an expletive, and feels it in his gut.

Dean opens his eyes and looks up at Cas, who is just staring, almost awestruck, eyes hell-black.

His jaw aches like he’s been doing this for hours— and for all he can tell he has been, just an eternity of this— before Cas changes pace and starts to lose rhythm. A final, impossibly deep thrust, and Dean works his raw throat around Cas’ cock— a final exhaled  _ fuck _ and Cas is pouring down his throat and pulling out.

Dean tries to pull away to spit, but Cas tips his head back and commands “swallow”— so Dean does, grimacing.

“Good boy,” and the praise pools low in Dean’s stomach, a guilty heat he can’t control.

Only then does the grip on Dean’s hair let up, and Cas flexes his hand like it’s gone numb.

Dean doesn’t stand while Cas composes himself again, instead collects himself internally, evaluates.

“Deal’s not made yet, sweetheart,” Cas says finally. “Stand up.”

Dean does as he’s told, and his knees creak as he stands. Blood rushes to his head and he’s dizzy, takes a second to come back to earth.

He’s hard, he realises, achingly and embarrassingly so, a combination of attention and praise and his natural reactions, an undercurrent of shame.

“Well, look at you,” Cas says, and it’s almost fond— or, no, not  _ fond _ exactly, but something strange and possessive Dean can’t find the word for.

Dean is a fucked-out wreck and knows it— breathless, eyes blown wide, mussed hair and tear-streaked cheeks and swollen lips. He knows what he’s doing when he takes his lower lip between his teeth.

“So,” Dean says, quietly. “Sam.”

“Yes. Sam back and one year.”

A part of Dean wants to protest, argue that his soul and his dignity and his mouth have to add up to more than one year’s worth— but he reminds himself of the stakes and stays silent.

Cas’ lips are on his then, hungry and demanding. Dean forces himself not to react, until Cas reaches down and cups Dean’s cock through the denim of his jeans— Dean gasps reflexively, and Cas shoves his tongue in, chasing his own taste.

Dean wants to pull away, but Cas has one hand back in Dean’s hair, holding him close, his other hand moving steadily against Dean’s crotch— too fast and too rough, and the rub of the zipper against Dean’s bare skin is awful, but the friction is sweet and welcome, even from Cas, and Dean can almost let himself forget what this is.

He comes gasping against Cas’ mouth, a low moan as his body goes loose-limbed and heavy.

Cas pulls away all at once, still standing too close, but the distance between them now is untraversable.

“Be seeing you,” is all he says before he vanishes, leaving Dean standing in the middle of the devil’s trap, the wet spot on his jeans growing cold.

He shoves his fingers down his throat then, tastes dirt and engine grease. He gags one two  _ three _ and bile and semen are hot bitter burning out his mouth to the ground.

He still feels sick, a weight and pit in his stomach.

He wipes his fingers on his jeans, and takes a long pull from his flask. His raw throat burns in protest.

Another mouthful, for good measure.

The whiskey hits his empty stomach hard, and he’s unsteady walking back to the Impala, his head dizzy and light.

He manages to stay between the ditches as he drives back to the abandoned house where he left Sam to grow cold.

Sam is warm when Dean hugs him, alive and well and  _ there _ .

“You’d think I had died,” Sam jokes, and Dean laughs it off.

Bobby’s disapproval radiates off him, the knowledge of what Dean has done— partial knowledge, at any rate— weighing heavy, but Dean can’t quite bring himself to care.

**Author's Note:**

> hmu on twitter @fcukign


End file.
